


Of Secrets Kept, Strength Like a Tower

by kenaz



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Ardor in August, Dúnedain - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-29
Updated: 2011-11-29
Packaged: 2017-10-26 16:47:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/285598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kenaz/pseuds/kenaz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four Rangers have ridden from the Angle and beyond to greet Aragorn on his name-day, arriving concurrently with the unwelcome news of Stone-trolls savaging unwary travelers on the Great East Road-- a timely opportunity for Aragorn to prove his mettle, and for Elrohir to make the acquaintance of Halbarad, the solemn young Ranger who has yet to prove his own merit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_The vagaries of time,_ Elrohir mused, _are a strange thing_.    
Years passed swiftly for the Eldar, decades came and went in swift succession, yet a single moment had the power to drag on with dauntless tenacity: Estel, who had been brought to them as a toddling child just yesterday (or so it seemed) had come to manhood in an eye blink, but the dinner arranged in his honor to present him to the Dúnedain had stretched on interminably.  He had been profoundly relieved when his father had risen from his seat, offered apologies for not lingering, and excused himself from the table, providing the others an opportunity to do the same.

Yet while the older Rangers had retired to the Hall of Fire to invoke the memories of fallen men, pipe smoke wreathing  
their heads like the spirits of their long-dead companions, Elrohir had set off in search of their younger companion, who had absented himself with an alacrity bordering on rudeness.

The callow boy, Halbarad, had managed to evade him thus far, but he could hardly do so much longer; none knew Imladris so well as Elrohir and his brother, and there was no place he could hide if Elrohir set his mind to finding him. He had kept a close eye on the boy in his father's council chambers when Estel had been brought forth, freshly groomed and wearing the ring of Barahair with obvious pride. He had fixed his eyes upon the boy's face in search of the slightest hint of envy or resentment, of mistrust or disbelief, when Estel's lineage had been revealed.  Of course, Halbarad had been the only man present who had not known the truth of Estel's birth; Tirdor and Hingarth had escorted Gilraen and her sobbing babe to Imladris shortly after Arathorn's fall, and Maelathron had been Arador's trusted companion. They had come to honor their new leader, the son of their hearts whose secret they had guarded even among their own kind, and to fetch him to the North with all the honor due him.  Halbarad, however, was of an age with Estel, and had known him merely as a young companion to the sons of Elrond, with no inkling of his birthright. The older men trusted the house of Elrond to rear up a capable Ranger, but young men had not the length of memory nor the wisdom and patience which accompanied it. Would they accept a leader thrust without warning into their midst? Halbarad had been the first to bend his knee, but less gracious sentiments could be hidden behind grand gestures. Were they hidden in Halbarad?

Tirdor had spoken highly of the lad, had said he possessed a seriousness of purpose well beyond his years. Elrohir wondered if it was indeed a seriousness of purpose, or merely dourness. He struck Elrohir as a grim one, even for a Man of the North, and taciturn, as different from bold, bright Aragorn as the night was from the day.  And yet, he considered, Halbarad's father had been a good man, and a dear friend to Arathorn-- he had fallen at Arathorn's side, no less--but the strengths of the father were not always passed to the son. Elrohir had seen enough of the nature of Men to know that.

Dinner had been meant as a celebratory affair, but his lord father had been a distracted host and it had fallen to Elladan to carry the conversation and rouse the terse Northmen to recount tales of Arathorn's valor for his son's appreciation. Elrohir played his part as well, to observe as his brother distracted. Halbarad had said little during the meal though was polite and spoke well enough when engaged, though for all that, he had the look of a restless young man who would have been happier on a horse, or sleeping under the stars. He had been quite aware, however, of Elrohir's attention, and had become flushed and awkward under the scrutiny.  He'd fled the table as soon as he'd been given half a chance.

And so, Elrohir had little choice but to pursue him. Hardly and unpleasant task: the lad was fair of face and strong of build, though for Elrohir's tastes he was far too young, and far too mortal. _That way_ , he told himself, _lay great sorrow_.  As if to punctuate that very thought, the night breeze brought him a faint tune in a familiar voice: Aragorn was walking somewhere near, moving alone through the twilight, humming a part from the _Lay of Luthien_.

At least he now had a legitimate purpose in stalking the young Ranger. Word had come from the marchwardens that trolls had been harrying travelers on the Great East road between the Last Bridge and Bree. Elladan suggested that Aragorn should lead out a ranging, a fitting and timely start to his duties as Chieftain. But Elladan had followed his father out of the great hall and left Elrohir to carry the word from man to man.

His father's door had been shut tight when he passed, and he could hear his brother's voice low within. He considered  
knocking, but thought better of it. Elladan would see to it that he knew their father's mind. The events surrounding Aragorn's name day had been fraught, and made all the more so by the unlooked for arrival of Arwen, who had been overtaken by a sudden desire to cut short her long sojourn in Lorien-- a sojourn their father had engineered with the specific intention of keeping his daughter and foster-son apart. Elrond had said little enough about what visions had come to him of his daughter's future and his foster-son's fate, but Elrohir had long ago learned it was often best not to ask.

In search of Halbarad, Elrohir ventured down toward the river, and spied there two figures in silhouette, not quite touching, but in a proximity which spoke of great intimacy. They stood enraptured, so still that they might have been statues, except for the way the faint wind teased at the fabric of her skirts and ruffled his hair. He thought of his father and Elladan, cloistered within his father's chambers, wondered again what arcane knowledge his father had of things that might come to pass, and he briefly considered rushing toward them, shattering the peace of their communion, breaking whatever enchantment had taken hold of them-- but it would come to naught, and he knew it: time passed, as time always did; the moment had taken root, and destiny would have its way with them just as it would have its way with every man in the end.

Understanding this made him feel both old and strangely sad.

 _But fate has its own vicissitudes, does it not? Not always does foresight mean foregone conclusion... what we are betimes given to see is but a hint of a possible future, not an inviolable decree..._

Leaving the couple to their ill-starred idyll, he turned back toward the great house, and passing beneath his father's windows, he hear his father's voice and Elladan's within:

"Father, she is a woman grown, and he a man. A king, by rights--"

"--By rights, but not by deed. He is not Isildur--"

"--And thank the stars for that!--"

He strained to listen, though he knew it was a grievous breach of etiquette.

"Take her, Elladan. Escort her back to the Golden Wood.  Escort her to the Havens.  I will not have them meet."

 _It is too late, Father,_ he thought as he continued onward. _Too late for them, and for you._ _The seeds now sown will not be easily ripped from the soil, but who is to say if the fruit they will yield will be bitter or sweet?_

 

# # #

  
He found his quarry, at long last, in the gallery, standing half in shadow. His brown and grey clothing would have rendered him  
something of a shadow even by light of day: well-spun, but hard worn and dating to a vintage far older than its wearer. It spoke of faded grandeur and ancient pride. Fitting garb, Elrohir thought, for Halbarad Dúnedan.

The shards of Narsil lay arranged before him on a piece of silk. The sight of that broken steel never failed to rouse in Elrohir some feeling of awe and respect-- strange, that such a small thing as a sword could change the course of history. _But sometimes that was all a man needed, wasn't it? A good sword and the will to wield it._ Now it lay lifeless. Once, it had shone with the light of the sun and of the moon.

Halbarad stepped into a shaft of moonlight, unaware of Elrohir's presence, and approached the broken weapon with reverent steps. "Let him wield it well," the young man whispered. "Stars grant that he be the Hope we have so long waited for."

The quiet plea moved Elrohir to pity, and he could not let the man continue in earnest, believing himself alone and unwatched. He came out of the darkness and stood where Halbarad could see him. "He will wield it well, Halbarad Dúnedan. He has had no less than Lord Elrond, and the sons of Elrond, to school him.He has had Glorfindel of Gondolin to shape his strength, and Gildor of the house of Finrod to hone him. Aragorn is not only the Hope of the Dúnedain, but of us as well."

Halbarad had flinched at the unexpected sound behind him, but recovered himself quickly as Elrohir drew near-- though not so quickly that Elrohir missed the blush spreading across his face. "Of course. I did not mean to imply--"

He held up a placating hand. "You implied nothing. Forgive me for intruding on a private moment. I was merely passing by--" He was grateful when Halbarad interrupted his dissimulation.

"--I thought to take a walk down by the river, but--"

"--but you stumbled across another private moment."

Halbarad nodded. "The woman... that is your sister, yes? The Evenstar of whom your people sing?"

Elrohir felt a flash of great dismay as he thought of Aragorn's song, and of Luthien's end. "It is she." He did not wish to discuss the matter further-- not Arwen, not Aragorn, not whatever burgeoned now between them, nor the despair of his father when he learned that all his efforts had failed in the relentless face of fate. "It is good that I should find you here." He swiftly steered the conversation away from more troubling waters. "We have had word of Trolls causing havoc to the west. Aragorn wished to pursue them. Were I you, I would be prepared to ride out at first light."

Halbarad's expression brightened some at the mention of a campaign. "Then I will see first-hand how well Rivendell has prepared my Chieftain. If his prowess is anything at all like the stories I have heard of Glorfindel Golden-hair and Gildor the Wanderer, I will be most honored to fight at his side. I have long awaited the day that I might begin to discharge my duty to defend the Free Peoples."

 _Ah, youth,_ Elrohir silently sighed. _It goes eagerly into battle. Would that I still had such fire in my veins._. The boy would loose his taste for blood soon enough.

Halbarad had turned his attention back to the pieces of Narsil arrayed before him. "The Lord of the Dúnedain should carry a weapon befitting his station." He lifted the larger piece by the pommel, holding it not like a sword, but with the reverence as a man bearing a sacred object. "Only one man has the right to bear the sword of Elendil, and though it is broken, its edge is still deadly sharp."  He extended the broken sword toward Elrohir. "My lord, this is the greatest token of my ancestors. Aragorn should have it now."

The silence of the evening bore down upon Elrohir, yet a thousand winds roared in his ears as he stretched out a hand to take the blade from Halbarad. His fingers brushed the man's as they took up the steel. He looked down, and as he did, Halbarad's eyes, earnest and grey as the sea, flashed on the surface of the blade, glowed like twin sparks in the moonlight.  Then the moonlight became torch-light, and the torch-light became a dull, green glow. Swimming in the air before him, Elrohir saw a looming mountain and a black gate beneath. Halbarad stood before him, looking toward the mountain. He was no longer a youth, but an older, grimmer man whose face had been wrought raw and fine by sorrow and strain. Yet his eyes, those keen grey eyes, still held moonlight and the memory of youth.  "This is an evil door," he said, his eyes locking with Elrohir's, "and my death lies beyond it."

"What door?" Elrohir was gripped with a feeling of weightlessness, of displacement. "Where is this place? I do not understand."  The ground was falling away from his feet.

"Are you well, Lord Elrohir?"

Elrohir blinked roughly. The roaring in his ears retreated, leaving only the night sounds of water and wind and cricket chirps. Halbarad was watching him with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion, his eyes still keen and grey, but now in a youthful face, a face which had not yet been sharpened by trial. "Yes, of course." He forced himself to smile. "Forgive me, what did you say just now?"

Halbarad shook his head, confused. "I asked if you would present Aragorn with the sword of Elendil." He looked as startled as Elrohir wagered he himself felt.

"Indeed, he should carry this. I shall ask my father to present it to him. Thank you, Halbarad."

The strained silence broke when Halbarad stepped backward, releasing his grasp on the sword, the warmth of his hand withdrawing and leaving Elrohir with a fistful of cold steel. "I would best be abed if we leave at first light," he said quietly. "We've a long ride ahead of us." He sketched a small, swift bow, and slipped off silently down the hall like the shadow he was.


	2. Chapter 2

The cave gaped wide and black, a toothless maw opening into the belly of the earth. Bones, human and animal alike, littered the ground, and the dirt had been churned up in ragged lines where something--or someone--had been dragged within.

"This will be their nest, then." Tirdor, a Ranger whose beard had been long touched with grey, drew up beside his Chieftain. Four Rangers had ridden from the Angle and beyond to greet Aragorn on his name-day, arriving concurrently with the unwelcome news of Stone-trolls savaging unwary travelers on the Great East Road. A timely opportunity for Aragorn to prove his mettle.

"Be aware," said Maelathron, "Stone-trolls are stupid beasts, but not easy to kill." His frown deepened, and he closed his hand more tightly around his mace. "I know that far too well. You should, too, Aragorn."

Aragorn inclined his head. "We will be cautious, Maelathron. No-one here has forgotten my Grandsire's fate, even those of us who were not with you to see it."

Tirdor and Hingarth murmured their agreement; the boy, Halbarad, glared grimly at the cave. Elrohir doubted he had ever seen a Stone-troll, green as he was. It remained to be seen how he would acquit himself in the face of danger.

Watching him stand ready at Aragorn's side, inexperience disguised by a solemn demeanor in perfect opposition to his Chieftain's charismatic confidence, Elrohir felt a rush of instinctive confidence that Halbarad would prove more than equal to the task ahead. He looked much less a boy here in the field then he had in borrowed finery in Elrond's great hall, more comfortable in the skin of a Ranger with scuffed leather boots and his father's woolen cloak hiding the grime of the road. In Imladris, he'd shifted uncomfortably under Elrohr's searching gaze, withstanding it with resignation, aware his measure was being taken, but uncertain of its merit. When Elrohir looked at him now, he held his chin higher, as if to proclaim that here he was in his rightful place. He had seen much in Halbarad since the arrival of the Rangers in Imladris--far more than he wished to know. And now, the burden of that knowledge was his to keep, another secret to be borne.

"Let us go forth," Aragorn said, "before they hear us and take notice." He shielded his eyes against the blank glare of the overcast sky. "The sun has risen high enough for our purpose. Make ready; I shall go in and raise the cry."

Elrohir heard a rustle of cloth as Halbarad dismounted.

"This is not a Chieftain's task. I shall go."

The sound of wind rushed in Elrohir's ears though no breeze moved through the beech-stands in the still morning, a prickle of remembrance dancing down his spine. His mind cast back to another time, to Halbarad's countenance, at once old and young, flashing on the face of a broken sword. He opened his mouth to speak, but Elladan spoke for him, slipping from his horse with a graceful swing of a leg.

"I, too, will go. My eyes serve better than a Man's in the dark." He handed his reins to Elrohir and gestured for Halbarad to do the same. "Are you ready?"

Halbarad gave a stiff nod. Elrohir saw a flax and leather sling tucked in his belt and a bag of stones knocked against his hip; he carried a stout club in one hand: the weapon of a boy, the weapon of a man.

Aragorn's plan had been simple enough: lure the creatures out into the light, which they could not withstand, then bludgeon their stony forms to dust with flails and maces and clubs--brutish weapons for brutish beasts--and scatter the remains, leaving no chance that any malign magic could restore them to life. But simple did not mean foolproof, and while it made Elrohir uneasy, it was Aragorn's decision to make, his order to follow, rash or no.

 _And all Men are rash,_ he thought. Perhaps they could ill afford to be otherwise, with the flames of their lives burning so briefly and so bright. Glorfindel had often said the same of him and of his brother, as if their own Mannish blood had manifested in them some greater sense of urgency than in their purely Elven fellows. As he drew the riderless horses toward the safety of the woods and watched his brother and the young Ranger disappear into the cave, Elrohir accorded some small bit of truth to Glorfindel's assessment.

He took stock of his gear as he waited for the melee to begin: a hithlain rope coiled around the pommel of his saddle...flanged mace in his hand...hunting knife...It was the sort of banal exercise a man did when he could do nothing else. _This is what Elves do._ Impatience rose in him like a fever. _We watch, and we wait._

Yet the wait was over soon enough. The Trolls roused at the echoing clamor of the interlopers and gave chase. Elrohir heard the ruckus growing louder as he turned his horse in circles: Elladan's sharp barks, Halbarad's answering shouts, the thunderous growls reverberating unseen in the dark. He advanced toward the cave, installing himself between Aragorn and Maelathron. The rank odor of old blood and rotted flesh emanated from the darkness and assailed his nostrils.

Elladan's voice had grown louder, and so had the sound of their foes. Elrohir flexed his fingers on the shaft of his mace and rose up in his saddle, alert for the first glimpse of Elladan or Halbarad breaking free of the darkness.

Be ready for them!" Aragorn shouted. When he flipped back his cloak, the broken blade of Narsil glinted at his hip, reflecting the wan light of the day. The light of the sun and moon once contained within it had been extinguished long ago, spent when it shattered beneath Elendil's dying body, and no man but Isildur had carried it since. Neither Elrohir nor his father had told Aragorn that he carried it today at Halbarad's behest.

A rumble and a roar shook Elrohir from his retrospection. He looked up just in time to see his brother dash out of the cave with Halbarad at heels.

"They come!" he shouted and raised his mace.

Trolls--three of them-- harried the men out of the cave, blundering into the late morning light. The sun fell upon their skin and seared them, and they howled in agony. Bellows became the dull clatter of a rock slide; limbs froze in bellicose postures; malevolence in motion transformed into insensate stone. The Rangers descended upon them and rained down a torrent of blows. Maelathron especially delivered vicious retribution, his Mortal ire still burning with the memory of Arador's fall.

Halbarad stood rooted to the spot, his breath coming in labored bursts, his eyes wide with fascination, his mouth agape in disgust as the last of the creatures ground to a halt before him, the widening jaws becoming immobile an instant before they had been able to crush his bones.

"Move, boy!" Elrohir shouted and nudged his horse over with his leg just enough to propel Halbarad into motion. The Ranger remembered himself and shut his mouth, his lips a slim, down-turned line. Elrohir swung his mace into the crevasse that had shortly before been the Troll's craw; the stone cracked, splitting the head in twain.

"Well done, friends!" Aragorn cried. "These creatures will wreak their havoc here no more!"

But shouts of victory were overpowered by a new sound, a barbaric rumble rising up from deep within the cave like an imminent storm. The earth shuddered.

"What new menace is this?" Halbarad asked, scrambling to remount his horse. An anxious tension darkened his features. No one answered.

And then it was upon them.

A beast easily twice the size of the Stone-trolls burst from the cave, its grey-green skin covered in thick, horny scales, an enormous war-hammer swinging in its bulging fist. It swung a stroke that rent the air with a bone-shattering whoosh. Its call was the deadly thunder of an avalanche, and its wild fury was untempered by the light of the sun.

"Olog-hai!" Elladan cried. "Hill-troll!"

"Retreat and regroup!" Aragorn shouted, but not before the creature charged at Hingarth and took his horse out from beneath him in a single blow of his maul. Hingarth could not clear the saddle quickly enough, and his leg was caught and crushed beneath his dying mount. His screams rang in the air.

The men drove forward, but the Hill-troll was nearly impervious to their blows. Their weapons bit the spiky armor of its hide, yet it did not bleed, and their assaults only further enraged it. The din of battle drew a second creature, as large or larger than the first, and equally fearsome. Some great mischief was afoot here, proof unasked for that the world had darkened and Evil grew unchecked.

Circling sorties kept the men in constant motion, their only hope to evade the deadly hammer-falls. While the first beast bore down on Tirdor and Maelathron, Aragorn darted in and stabbed the creature with Narsil's vicious edge just behind the knee with all the force he could marshal. It roared and turned on him, a sluggish trickle of ichor running from the wound as its leg buckled. The stumble gave the other men the opportunity they needed to attack as a single force. Only Elrohir and Halbarad hung back, their attention focused on the second Olog lumbering toward them.

When the Dúnedain brought the first creature to the ground, Aragorn again drew his broken swordblade. He raised his hand high and let loose his war-cry: "For Arador!" Then he drove Narsil into the creature's eye. It belched out some guttural curse as its miserable life left it, gravelly words that none assembled there could understand-- save for the other Troll, who turned from them and thundered away to the North.

"It fears the wrath of the Dúnedain!" Tirdor crowed, his face still fierce with battle-lust. "It flees!"

A frisson of foreboding told Elrohir otherwise. He shook his head. "No. It goes to raise others."

Aragorn turned his horse, watching the Hill-troll retreat. "Elrohir is right." He shifted his gaze between Elrohir and Halbarad, then looked back at the crippled Hingarth and his dead horse.

"We must know where they have come from, and if there are more. But Hingarth must be taken back to Imladris."

"We will carry him in a litter between our horses," Tirdor told him.

"Then you will be defenseless," Elladan countered. "You will need at least two unencumbered men to accompany you."

Aragorn grimaced. "Tirdor and Hingarth brought me and my mother to Lord Elrond's keeping when we were tired and defenseless. It is a favor I am long overdue in repaying." He turned to Tirdor and said, "Elladan and I will see you safely to Imladris, just as you once saw me safely there." He turned back to Elrohir and Halbarad. "Well, friends, the success of our undertaking rests with you: Elrohir, Halbarad, you must find the Hill-troll and bring it down."


	3. Chapter 3

They moved steadily onward, following the enormous, misshapen footprints the Hill-troll had planted in the damp earth; but of its passage they saw no other sign. Forests and moors gave way to a wild and inhospitable land in the foothills of the Hithaeglir. They had left Spring far behind them in Imladris; here, the air held Winter's perpetual chill. Wind bit at the tree-branches while the crows wheeled above them, mocking their progress. The Mitheithel sang a violent song as it burst from the mountains and rushed away, angry and cold.

"I have never been this far north before," Halbarad said, surveying the rocky wastes with a frown. "It is an unwelcoming place."

"This was once the land of the Dúnedain. Your people made their homes here for thousands of years after the fall of Beleriand. They died here, too. Your grandsire was killed in the Ettenmoors, alongside Arador."

"I have had the tale of Maelathron. He also told me how Yrch slew my father while he was ranging with Arathorn."

Elrohir nodded. "I was there."

Halbarad swiveled in his saddle. "You knew my father?" Curiosity and old pain flickered across his face. "You made no mention of it before."

Elrohir offered an equivocal shrug. "I wished to know you as your own man, apart from your father and his deeds."

"I was still in my mother's womb when he was lost. Maelathron said he was Arathorn's most loyal man, that he would have willingly taken the arrow that slew him, had another not found him first. I suppose it is truly my place, then, to ride with Aragorn." His lips bent in a wry half-smile. "Perhaps I shall be the one who rides with his Chieftain to glory rather than riding with him to his death."

"Indeed," Elrohir said softly, urging his great grey gelding forward to walk ahead of Halbarad's garron, setting the lad's face just out of view before his own face gave away its secrets.

Night fell, and they made their camp in a dense copse with old trees in front of them and the Mitheithel behind. Elrohir gathered kindling for a fire and fetched a tinderbox from deep within the folds of his cloak. Sparks jumped from the steel and soon set the clump of dry moss to smoldering.

"I'm never so quick to get a flame," Halbarad said, a hint of envy in his voice.

Elrohir smiled a benign smile. "I've had some time to practice." He worked quietly and steadily, adding more fuel to the little fire. All the while he felt Halbarad's inquisitive eyes on him, some unanswered question poised on his tongue.

"Whatever it is, you may as well ask."

Halbarad cleared his throat and looked away. "I'm sure it must be impolite to ask such a question of an Elf, but...how old are you, Lord Elrohir?"

Elrohir chuckled. "Ask impertinent questions and you may as well forego the honorific." He turned to look at Halbarad over his shoulder. The young man's handsome face was coloring with embarrassment. "Well, since you have asked, I will tell you: I am two-thousand, eight hundred and some-odd years old." He sighed and clucked his tongue at Halbarad's dumbfounded expression. "Shut your mouth, boy. You did ask."

Halbarad shut it. Elrohir noticed he displayed no obvious umbrage at being called a boy; Aragorn would have pointedly decried such condescension. Halbarad seemed phlegmatic in this regard, more likely to ignore minor slights and choose his battles. "How old did you take me to be?"

"Oh...well..." Halbarad considered with a furrowed brow. "I have known no other Elves, so I have little by which to make a comparison. But I suppose I wouldn't have put you a day over two thousand years."

The quip was so unexpected, Elrohir was utterly lost for a response. He burst out laughing.

"We should be quieter, you know." The sternness in Halbarad's face when Elrohir continued to chuckle was not entirely credible.

Elrohir restrained his grin. "I shall be the soul of discretion, as long as you keep your knife-wit sheathed. You amuse me, Dúnadan."

"Perhaps that's why you stared at me so intently when you first made my acquaintance in Imladris," Halbarad replied dryly. "Because I amused you. Or did you merely wish to discomfit me, the young fool in his father's old clothing who fancied himself a Ranger?"

Elrohir looked up from the fire and fixed his gaze on Halbarad, one eyebrow cocked. "Did I discomfit you?"

Halbarad ignored the bright spots of color appeared on his cheeks, and the muscles in his jaw tightened, but he did not look away.

 _Well done, lad, Elrohir thought._

"You were a cypher to me," Elrohir said simply, releasing the boy from his appraisal. "Tirndor and the others- well, I have known them, and their fathers, and their father's fathers before them. Just as I knew your father.

"But," he continued, feeding a handful of dry leaves to the burgeoning fire, "I did not know you. We have kept our distance from the Dúnedain these last twenty years to conceal Aragorn's lineage. You grew to adulthood an enigma."

"My father's name did not hold weight enough to vouchsafe my character?"

"You said yourself that you did not know your father. For all I knew, you harbored envy that Aragorn had been reared in luxury while you eked out an exile's existence, or you resented that a man who was a stranger to you- and scarcely older than you-should suddenly claim a title you coveted. I have protected Aragorn his whole life; I do not cease to protect him simply because he has come of age."

"Fair enough." Halbarad nodded soberly, but his expression carried a hint of accusation. "But when you saw I bore him naught but good will, you continued to keep watch over me as if I might prove to be a viper."

"I admit to my curiosity," Elrohir acknowledged. "Aragorn does not lack for mentors. Many years will pass before he can step free of the shadows of the men who have come before. He will be Arathorn's son or Arador's grandchild-to say nothing of Isildur's heir- for a long while before men like Hingarth or Tirdor or Maelathron will seem him for his own skills and deeds..."

"...Whereas I have never known another chieftain before him. Nor even a father. But if you wished to know me, you might just have asked me my thoughts rather than staring me down over the table, or tracking me about the grounds of the Last Homely House under cover of darkness. Unless I should believe you merely chanced upon me in the gallery?" Halbarad pinned him with cool, grey eyes. "I am an inexperienced Ranger, but I am a Ranger nonetheless."

Elrohir conceded the point with a nod, pleased once more by the man's droll wit. "Yes, I followed you. I shall endeavor to cover my tracks better in the future."

"So you intend follow me again? Should I take pride or offense?"

"Neither, Halbarad," Elrohir grinned, "I believe I have seen enough to know my mind."

They shared a meagre dinner from the provisions they carried, and spoke long into the night: of Halbarad's father, of Aragorn, and of the quest that awaited them come morning. In time, silence fell between them and Elrohir thought that perhaps sleep had overtaken his companion, but when he looked up, Halbarad's eyes were still bright and alert, and fixed on the darkness of the trees beyond. Tirdor had been right; he carried a weight of years his body had not yet borne.

"You look troubled. What are you thinking?"

Halbarad opened his mouth, but said nothing for a long moment, as if measuring his words. "That I shall have no son to tell the story of my first ranging, of taunting Stone-trolls in their caves, or of pursuing Hill-trolls with Elrohir Half-elven."

Elrohir stiffened. He wondered what the boy knew. "Surely you are too young to think of marriage."

"Oh, to be sure!" Halbarad's eyes dropped to his hands. "But in any case, I think... I am not made for marriage."

"Oh." Elrohir released his breath. "Well, you are not the first man to be disinclined, nor will you be the last."

"Still, though," Halbarad said softly, "Someday I will be an old man, and all these stories will pass with me."

A platitude about a man's deeds having a life far longer then a man himself danced on the tip of Elrohir's tongue. Halbarad would see through such banalities and resent them. And those words would be lies. He kept silent.

"What of you?" Halbarad asked, once the silence had become awkward. "Surely you are not too young to think of marriage..."

"Impudent pup," Elrohir muttered under his breath. He offered no other answer.

"It is said," Halbarad began after a while, his voice low and guarded, "that the sons of Elrond have a choice laid upon them, to cleave to Elf-kind or become Mortal. Is it truly so?"

"It is."

Halbarad's eyes flashed. "I cannot fathom choosing anything but the immortal life of the Eldar! A Man's life is so...so brief! Why would you even ponder our few years when you could have all the ages of the world before you?"

 _All the ages of the world to remember what we have lost, or what is gone and will not come again_ , Elrohir thought. _All the ages of the world to carry our regrets. Or the brief life of Man, and the understanding that we shall become the things which are lost, that we shall be the regrets which are carried by those left behind._

A vision of Arwen passed through his mind, the radiance of her smile... and her expression, inscrutable in the moonlight, as she looked into Aragorn's face, and saw her heart and her doom there. Perhaps for her, the choice has already been made. He shut his eyes against the sudden welter of pain rising behind them. "You speak of intimate matters, Dúnadan, and things which Mortal minds are not made to comprehend. Your forebears took a great interest in such matters; it did not end well for them."

Chastened, Halbarad set his jaw and returned his eyes to his clasped hands.

Elrohir softened his tone. "Many years will come and go before we are called upon to make our choice. But do not forget that the blood of Númenor runs in my veins as it does your own; perhaps it sings a softer song in me than the blood of my mother's kin, but it sings to me all the same." The fire he had built at the setting of the sun was dying, the last of the branches he had fed it glowed as red embers in black ash. "I am young by the standard of my people, and yet I have seen so many things..." _...War. Death. Famine. My mother weeping when my brother pulled her broken body from the lair of the Yrch..._

"Forgive me." Halbarad's voice shook him from his grim reverie. "You are right; there is much I do not understand, nor could ever hope to."

They said little after that, exchanging desultory words in the darkness, until Halbarad masked a yawn behind his fist. It was easy to forget that Men had not the stamina of Elves- not even the Dúnedain-and they had traveled long and hard.

"Sleep," Elrohir told him. "I am not yet tired; I will take the watch."

"My thanks." Halbarad grunted as he bundled his cloak around himself. "Let us hope we find this Troll before he finds us."


	4. Chapter 4

They rode for the better part of a day before they saw a sign of their quarry: the remains of a great black bear, utterly savaged.

"A fresh kill." Halbarad gestured at the steam rising from the entrails then drew his arm across his face to evade the odor. The fabric of his cloak muffled his voice. "Surely nothing else could have done this."

Elrohir dismounted and knelt on the damp ground a few feet away, closing his eyes and pressing his hands into the earth. He willed himself to focus only on the earth, to banish the sounds of wind and leaves and birds and Halbarad's breathing. Beneath the carpet of dead leaves and frost, he felt the slightest tremor, a trembling of the soil as giant footfalls thumped a daunting cadence. He pointed toward the curve of the river.

"That way."

The trail they followed skirted small knolls and cut through the woodlands, skirting the larger ridges and foothills that grew steadily upwards into the teeth of the Hithaeglir. Elrohir's skin tingled with anticipation. _Soon_ , he thought. _It will be soon._

And so it was. They had not ridden more than a mile when they heard a low and monstrous growl coming from the far side of the next hillock. The river sharply doglegged around a rocky outcropping and left a slim verge between the river and the rocks. Elrohir signalled for Halbarad to hold, preferring to assess the situation on foot before blundering into a trap. With soundless steps he scaled the rocks, found cover, and looked down. Unsated by the bear, the Troll had snatched a doe as she drank from the river. The thing now hunched over a her carcass, tearing off its limbs with enthusiastic malice, its great war hammer discarded nearby. As he feared, the trail was quite narrow, but beyond the next knoll the land became only increasingly rocky and increasingly steep. They would not have another chance to act. Disheartened, he made his way back down to warn Halbarad of the challenge awaiting them.

"Its preoccupation with its meal provides us with the advantage of an ambush." He pitched his voice low, barely above a whisper. "But little else stands in our favor."

"Then we must act now." Halbarad's brow furrowed in concentration. "We know the eyes are a weak spot, and possibly the throat. Will your rope hold? Could you bind its arms long enough for me to make a strike?"

Elrohir shook his head. "I should not like to take that risk. Hithlain is a bane to dark creatures, but I have not tested its strength against a thing this size, and even so, I doubt my own strength to hold it."

"What do you suggest?"

The Mitheithel still sang its cold and violent song nearby, its waters wide and deep. "Drive it into the river."

The crunch of bones in the Troll's mouth served as a reminder that they had no time for deliberation.

Halbarad blew out a slow, steady stream of breath. "Well, then. No sense in putting off what must be done."

The moved in silence on the narrow trail. As soon as Elrohir cleared the uneven terrain at the bottom of the knoll, he spurred his horse on, mace aloft. The Troll heard the clatter of hoof-beats and threw aside what little remained of its repast, lurching heavily to its feet. Halbarad pressed his doughty little horse forward and and to the right to approach the beast from behind. It roared and struck at them, meaty hands gory with blood and fur; in its surprise, it had neglected to pick up its maul. A small mercy, but a mercy nonetheless.

The beast dove first at Elrohir, but his horse sprang backward with laudable agility, keeping his rider out of harm's way, if only barely, and luring the creature nearer and nearer to the water's edge. The Troll then turned on Halbarad, who loosed a rock from his sling and caught it square on the side of the head. It bellowed at the assault and lunged. Halbarad's horse skittered just out of reach. Elrohir pressed close, calling out to distract it, but it did not turn from Halbarad; it had chosen its adversary and would not be diverted.

Elrohir cursed. Unless he could draw the Olog's attention, the boy was in for a bad time of it. He rushed in and took a hard swing. The blow landed with a dull thud, the flanged head shallowly penetrating the beast's rough hide. Elrohir felt the shock of it radiating up his arm. The creature began to turn toward him, so he stuck again while he could. With a resounding crack, the wooden handle broke apart, and the steel head bounced uselessly off the creature's thigh and rolled away. Elrohir wheeled his mount around and bolted.

With Elrohir out of striking range, the Troll had returned its attention to Halbarad once more. Halbarad reined his horse back, but his maneuvering left him perilously close to the water. An outcropping of rock forging up through the earth cut off his escape on one side and the river flanked him on the other. The Troll made an ominous gurgling sound in the back of its throat. It drew back its arm, then lashed out. The little garron squealed in pain and terror as long claws raked it.

Elrohir had hardly even registered the hithlain rope until his hands were in motion. He whipped it above his head to gain momentum and then let fly, his mind's eye envisioning the rope encircling the Troll's leg like a vine. As his mind fixed the image, the rope obeyed, a sailing serpent of mist shackling Troll's enormous limb, an extension of its wielder's will.

"Hold fast!" he hissed to his gelding as the rope caught. He was nearly jerked from the saddle when the beast lifted its foot to lunge at Halbarad. The rope held, burning through Elrohir's hands, the scent of singed leather stinging the air as his the friction scorched his gloves. He feared the line would sail through his fists, though he could not have closed them any tighter. The muscled in his arms spasmed as he used all of his strength to keep himself planted. Luck was with him; the Troll stumbled. Elrohir imagined the knot releasing and the rope going slack; the rope did as it was bidden.

The Troll's momentum toppled it forward and it could not regain its balance. In trying to right itself, it only set itself on an irrevocable course into the water. It raged as it fell, its rank breath a sulphurous belch that shook the leaves in the trees.

It made one final, vindictive grab for Halbarad and connected with his horse.

"Jump!" Elrohir shouted, leaping from his own mount and watching helplessly as Halbarad's garron thrashed against its fate. "Halbarad, jump!"

Roiling waters surged over the doomed beasts, horse and Troll alike. Elrohir saw Halbarad kick his feet free of the stirrups and throw his weight in the opposite direction, but to Elrohir's horror, the horse's frantic hoof caught him in the temple. Halbarad's head snapped back, and when his body hit the water, he sank like a stone.

Elrohir cried, "no!"

The river rushed on and on, filling the Troll's mouth and smothering its infernal growl. The horse, moribund and exhausted, ceased to struggle and was lost. Elrohir reached the bank just as the water covered the Troll's giant, lumpen form completely, and the current began to pull it away in its course. Of Halbarad, there was no sign.

"No! Not this way!" he shouted, as if by his command the river might spit Halbarad onto the shore. But he was not his father, and this was not the Bruinen; he could beg no boon of the waters here.

But then, barely more than a stone's throw from where he stood, an amorphous black shape bobbed in the water, seemingly untouched by the current's sway. It cannot be, he thought. And yet, it was. Halbarad's cape. The hithlain rope was still in his hand, inert but cunning, its pale strands giving off an eerie light as if signalling him to action. He swung it hard, his eyes fixed on the dark spot in the water, and let it sail, praying the rope would find its target. The pale line arced through the air like a comet's tail and landed across Halbarad's back.

 _Bind him. Hold him tight. Not a moment to waste!_

The rope slithered like a serpent, vanishing into the dark water and reemerging, twining and weaving itself into a thick knot. Elrohir hurried to fasten the other end to his saddle and gave his horse a nudge. "Help me, Brethil. Slow and steady."

The horse hunkered down against the current and labored forward. Inch by inch, the river relinquished its prize, and at last, Halbarad's body lay on the bank, his face grave and grey.

 _A looming mountain, a black gate. Halbarad's eyes in an older man's face._

"No!" Elrohir cried. "This must not be!"

He clutched Halbarad's face between his hands, willing all the wisdom and skill of his years to come to him, to serve him in this moment of need. He drew a long breath, tipped Halbarad's head back, and sent his breath into Halbarad's lungs. Again, and again, and again.

 _His time is not yet come! __he railed in silence, the sound of his own heart thundering in his ears. _I have seen it! I have seen a different day for this son of Men!__

Distantly, a second rhythm played against his own. But it grew stronger minute by minute, and closer, as if returning from afar. Of a sudden, Halbarad was sputtering and struggling weakly beneath him, coughing and choking, then breathing his own breath, his heart laboring in time with Elrohir's. Elrohir slumped forward in relief, resting his head on Halbarad's chest, listening gratefully to the slow beating within. After a long moment, he felt the limp weight of Halbarad's hand as it twined in his hair and did not let go.


	5. Chapter 5

They stayed there at the river bank for as long as Elrohir dared let them remain. Once Halbarad showed signs of regaining his strength, Elrohir ran up the stirrups on Brethil’s saddle, knotted the reins, and sent the gelding off with a slap to the rump. The horse trotted off a ways, turned to regard him, then set off south at a gallop.

“Come.” He pulled Halbarad to his feet. “We must move quickly. I do not know what else lurks in this land, but I do not feel that we can remain safely exposed.”

The pallor had receded somewhat from Halbarad’s face, but it had not left him entirely, and his lips and fingernails were tinged with blue. Shivers wracked his body. “Move where? We are too far afield to reach any settlement by foot.” He shot Elrohir an accusatory look. “And you've just sent our only horse away.”

“He could not have carried both of us, not all the way to Imladris, and I will not have us separate. Brethil will make his way home more quickly unencumbered, and when the ostlers see his stirrups are up and his reins are bound, they will understand that we are well but stranded.”

“And in the mean time? Have you given me back my life that I might lose it again to the cold tonight? Or worse?”

He is frightened. “Have faith, Dúnadan,” he chided. “This is not my first night in the wild.”

Water still dripped down Halbarad’s face and pooled on the ground around his boots, making him the very picture of misery. “Forgive me. I am wet and cross, but I will follow your lead.”

“Good, because I've a few years on you and a few secrets up my sleeve yet.”

He led them onward, pressing through the thickets of aspen and alder to skirt the foothills. Halbarad kept silent, the squelching sound of his footfalls a persistent reminder of his discomfort. When Elrohir touched him to lend his strength while traversing a steep pass, tension radiated from every inch of him. He would not meet Elrohir’s eyes, and the tremors, a manifestation of some deeper restlessness within, did not abate.

“Soon, Halbarad,” he promised gently.

Halbarad only nodded.

Elrohir remembered when neither desolation nor cruelty had marked this land. He had ridden this way with his brother, and with other Men of Westernesse long since dead and gone to dust, their names lost forever to the ages. “Many years have passed since last I have wandered here, but I know this place well, and the thing I seek is near.”

Halbarad eyed the wilderness with unvarnished doubt. “Which is what?” He moved sluggishly, weighed down by exhaustion and wet clothing.

“Something hiding in plain sight. You will have to remember this place when we find it. It may prove useful to you.”

“Elves speak and yet say nothing,” Halbarad grunted.

Elrohir gave him a gentle nudge. “Nearly drowning did nothing for your temper.” He surveyed the rocky outcroppings once more,and at last, he saw a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye. “There. Ahead. Do you see it?”

“I see only the slope of the hill and some rocks.”

“Look again.”

Halbarad shook his head and frowned. “I only see what I see.”

“Then you are not looking closely enough. Aragorn will need sharper eyes than that at his side. Look harder.” A breeze came up, as if in response to Elrohir's exhortation, and blew across the rising slope of the hill. The face of the rock rippled. “Tell me what you see.”

Halbarad continued to scan the horizon, and then he hitched a breath. “The side of the hill...” His voice trailed off in astonishment. “Either my eyes deceive me, or it... it moved. What is this place? Is it enchanted?”

Elrohir raised his hands in a gesture of equanimity. “Yes and no. The hill is only a hill, but there is a cave within, and we might take shelter there. It is masked by fabric given to us by the Galadhrim of Lórien, who weave it with ancient magics to conceal that which it covers. Touch it. Go on.”

“Hm.” Halbarad’s shoulders stiffened. “I’ve had more than enough caves for my liking of late.”

“Have no fear of this one; the skills of my kinsmen keep it beyond sight or sense of fell creatures.”

Halbarad approached dubiously, stretching out a hand for the fluttering fabric. The illusion was obvious when one was aware of it. The cloth bunched up in his hand and looked, of a sudden, like exactly what it was: a weathered grey curtain concealing a hole in the earth. A reluctant smile tracked across his face.

The cave’s low and narrow mouth was more fit for an animal than a man, but too small to attract larger beasts like bears, or Yrch-- or Trolls. They crawled on their hands and knees through the perennial night of the tunnel, the smell of stale air and wet wool hanging close as they made their slow progress deeper into the hillside.

At last the passage widened and grew taller, opening into a large chamber.

“You will be able to stand here. Feel your way up the wall and you should find a torch.”

“Yes, here it is!”

Once clear of the tunnel’s end, Elrohir pressed his tinderbox into Halbarad’s hand. “It is old and dry, but the jute should still take a spark.”

With shaking hands, Halbarad struck the steel, but his sparks flew wide of the torch-head and died in the darkness.

“You have gaps in your education that want filling, Ranger.”

Halbarad cursed under his breath and struck harder. “Perhaps you could aid me in filling those gaps rather than sit by while I fail.”

Elrohir lightly touched the man’s back, an angry wall of damp cloth and bitter frustration. “Have patience, and hold the steel closer to the jute.” After a few more tries, a pinprick of orange began to blossom into a widening ‘O’ and the jute began to smolder.

In time the old torch threw out enough light by which to see, and Halbarad let out an appreciative murmur. A great cavern rose before them, striated rock walls cleaved by deep black fissures; and playing over the echo of their footfalls, the gentle laughter of water from unseen sources trickling over stone. The bedrock formed natural ledges, and one was stacked with old furs and woolen blankets. Residue from fires long dead crept up the furthest wall and wended through hidden crevasses. A few bundles of firewood lay neatly piled nearby, sapped of all color by age. No one had taken refuge here in many years.

“It is not much, but for men caught out in bad weather or pursued by an enemy it could be the difference between life and death. Mark it well, Halbarad.”

“I couldn’t forget it,” he replied in a tone of hushed awe. “It is more than I dared hope for.”

Elrohir took the torch and used its flame to build up a fire that quickly cast tall shadows against the rugged walls and chased the nip from the air. Halbarad had already begun dragging the furs close to the fire. The half-moons of his fingernails showed blue on his long hands. Men were fragile creatures; even young ones, even bold ones.

“Providence has surely smiled on me.” Steam rose from Halbarad’s sleeves when he held his hands out to the flames. “Is this the only such place?”

“No, I can think of a handful of others that Gildor and his men have hewn over the years. Gildor has a particular affinity for stone.” Elrohir pulled off his cloak and laid it aside on a ledge with his gear. “It is a good thing to have a refuge in the wild; it will only become more needful, I think. It will serve a man well if he keeps it in good order.” He knew with certainty that Halbarad would take the charge to heart, and that so long as he lived, these places would be well tended.

He watched Halbarad take stock of the cavern, saw him bracing himself against the shaking of his limbs. “Take off your clothes,” he prompted. “They’ll dry more quickly on the rocks, and you’ll warm more quickly without them.”

Halbarad peeled off his layers and and stood close enough to the fire for it to singe the hairs on his shins. He chafed his hands and rubbed his arms. Elrohir passed him one of the furs to wrap himself in. The flames cast his face in illusory ruddiness, shadows dancing across its planes and angles, over his square jaw and solemn brow. In his silence, he wrestled with some inner anguish of which he could not yet speak, but Elrohir saw it in his eyes-- eyes that shared the tumult of the sea as well as its color.

Eventually, he spoke. “It is said that the Elves have the gift foresight. Is it true?”

“Some do, yes. As do some of your own people.”

“And what of you, Elrohir? Have you ever glimpsed the future? Have you ever seen something before it has come to pass?”

 _“...this is an Evil door...”_

He wiled himself to meet Halbarad’s probing gaze while giving nothing away. “Why do you ask?”

Halbarad’s nostrils flared as he exhaled. “My life is unlikely to be a long one. This I know, and there is little use in troubling myself over it. The path of a Ranger is fraught with perils both known and not, and I accept that as my lot. But today--” Elrohir watched the undulation of his throat as he swallowed. “I thought I would die today. I very nearly did die. I saw the Troll’s hand coming toward us and I knew he would not miss then. I felt my horse’s legs buckling under me. I heard you shouting for me to jump. And then I was falling, and all I knew was that I was not ready, that I had never imagined... I did not think it would all end so swiftly and so soon.

“I was not ready.” He repeated the words then clamped down hard upon them. The muscles in his jaw flexed, seizing beneath taut skin.

Elrohir rose from his place across the fire, and moved to stand behind him. He laid his hands on the man's shoulders, broad and strong in the withy way of a young tree beneath the fur that covered them. “There is no shame in fearing death."

A bitter laugh rattled in Halbarad's throat. "Words of a man who need not fear death at all!"

Elrohir gave him a rough jerk, turning him so they stood face to face. Halbarad's chest was ruddy where the flames had warmed it, yet the color cast by the fire on his cheeks disappeared, leaving only an expression of weary defiance on a face at once both young and old before its time. "A blade can kill me just as surely as it can you,” Elrohir reminded him. “A Troll's hammer would have dashed out my brains just as easily as yours. The strength of the Eldar is no anodyne against war." Two thousand years of love and loss-- of brave hearts fallen, of great realms brought to ruin--all passed through his memory, the staggering toll of Evil in all its forms. He closed his eyes against them, against faces so bright in his memory they glowed indelibly against the backs of his eyelids like the afterimage left by staring at the sun. "I have already lost much, and I stand to lose much more."

"There is so much I have not yet done!" Halbarad's words rang out against the stones, echoed back at them, and then died away in the darkness.

Elrohir tightened his grasp, as if Halbarad's body might suddenly rattle apart with the force of his distress. Halbarad shook his head fiercely. Whether the man shared his prescience, or if his response was simply a reflection of fear, Elrohir did not know.

“I want to see the day when Evil has been routed, and when my people live no more in exile. When we raise Annúminas anew.” He thrust his hands into Elrohir’s jerkin, twisting the leather in his fingers. The fur slipped from his shoulders. “Elrohir, I want to see the day when my Chieftain becomes my King."

 _You will not see that day, Halbarad, silent tower, son of the North._

The chill of Halbarad’s fingers reached through Elrohir’s shirt to his skin: a Mortal chill, not like the preternatural warmth of his own. He covered Halbarad’s hands with his. “You are still cold,” he whispered, and the moment hung in the air between them.

“Warm me,” Halbarad whispered in return. It was a man’s command, not a boy’s request, and without awaiting a reply, Halbarad pulled him close.

Taken aback, Elrohir stiffened and thought to extricate himself. _Elves should not take Mortal lovers_ , he thought. _The capacity for grief of one who has naught but time to look back on loss is too great, and I carry already the burden of secrets. I know already what I stand to lose._

Again, he thought of Arwen, of the treacherous tide of Mannish blood coursing within both their veins, blood ignited now by Halbarad’s breath, his touch. _Elves should not take Mortal lovers; but what of us who are not wholly Elven, yet not wholly Men?_

Halbarad’s wind-chapped lips removed from him the burden of choice. His kisses, insistent and needful, compelled Elrohir; he found that cold had not stripped Halbarad’s fingers of their agility. The laces of his jerkin came apart swiftly, and his hands did not pause in their efforts until Elrohir was stripped to the skin. Elrohir neither helped nor hindered him; he watched, and waited. _That is what Elves do, is it not? We watch, and wait._

Wonder glinted in Halbarad’s grey eyes, and hunger. They traced a slow path from Elrohir’s head to his feet. “I will never again look upon anything so fair.”

A hollow ache blossomed deep within Elrohir’s chest. He reached for Halbarad hoping that the constant motion of his body would keep the gnawing pang at bay. The desperate rush of Halbarad’s hand washed over him, urgent as a spring flood. Elrohir closed his eyes, and attuned himself to the play of Halbarad’s fingers, to the song of his breathing, to the scent of skin and fire, of wet wool and stone.

“Lie down with me, Elrohir.”

Furs did little to soften the stone and hard-packed earth beneath them, but Elrohir almost welcomed the discomfort, the reminder that succor came at a cost. The weight of Halbarad’s body tethered him to the earth like ballast. Muscles rippled and twitched beneath fire-warmed flesh. We are not so very different, Elrohir thought, even as his fingertips brushed across the fine dusting of dark hairs that sprang from the center of Halbarad’s chest, and between his navel and groin. Elrohir’s own chest was smooth and bare, and his skin vaguely glowed with some inner, Elvish light where Halbarad’s skin was simply pale. But he was hard, and urgently hungry, and in that they were no different-- no different at all.

No more did Halbarad shirk from Elrohir’s gaze, nor blush at his attention. The boy had gone, carried away on Mitheithel ‘s currents; cold water had tempered the blade of the man, and in touching death, he had found his steel. Elrohir knew his ache for what it was, then: Hunger. Hunger for this man, hunger for the thrill of blood in his veins, hunger for the song of desire in his flesh. The Mortal part of him, that part that refused to watch and wait, rose up in conflagration. _Now, now!_ his blood sang, caught alight by Halbarad’s undimming spark: _Seize this moment! Seize every moment you are given!_

“Have you--” he began to ask, the unfinished question dissipating when Halbarad exhaled against his cheek, against his mouth.

“I am no child, Elrohir.” Clever hands removed all doubt. “If you find gaps in my education...”

Elrohir smiled beneath Halbarad’s lips and grasped him hard enough that he ceased to speak.

Watch, and wait; it is the way of Elves. Mayhap it is not always the way of Peredhil.

“Some fires,” Elrohir told him, nipping at his ear, then at his throat, “are more easily kindled than others.”

The vagaries of time, Elrohir mused, are a strange thing. Hours may stretch and minutes warp, and still they will pass all too quickly. Yet safe in the darkness of the cave, he could not see dawn, could not see the inevitable march of the hours, and night stretched on and on: a reprieve. He welcomed it the way he welcomed Halbarad’s touch, the way he welcomed the twining of their limbs, and even the ache of loss that would come with sunrise-- whenever sunrise came.

Sheltered from night, from cold, twin fires burned, and their licking flames danced in darkness, burning bright and hot. Beside them, blazing wood crackled and hissed, sending up sparks that rose high toward the vault of stone above and vanished. Later, the logs would burn down, night and cold would once again encroach; but for now there was this: hands and mouths and the pure white heat of need.

 

“Tonight we rest together,” Halbarad said when they had quieted their hungers for a time, his voice gravelly with the nearness of sleep. “For once, we have no need of a watch.” His breaths slowed and lengthened, and the leg he had thrown over Elrohir’s twitched as he tumbled headlong into slumber.

Elrohir did not sleep, would not leave these last minutes unguarded. The warm weight of Halbarad’s head pushed down against his chest as he breathed in and out, bringing him the tandem twinge of comfort and sorrow. In the cooling embers, time resumed its normal rhythm: minutes and hours passed, and were gone, and would not come again.

 

The sun had neared the midpoint of its arc when they heard the sound of horses outside, beyond the cave. For once, Elrohir could not muster gladness at his brother’s voice.

“Let us meet them without,” he said. For such a large cave, it seemed now too close; they had filled it too well with their own bodies, and it could hold no more.

They relit the torch from the smoldering remains of the fire to give them light by which to work. They dressed, refolded the blankets and furs, and gathered their gear. Elrohir crushed down the last embers beneath his boots and scattered them.

“It looks as it did when we found it,” Halbarad remarked. His hand settled in the small of Elrohir’s back, but his eyes were fixed on the ground where the fire had blazed. “As if no-one has been here for years.”

Elladan called to them again.

“I will keep this place well, Elrohir,” Halbarad said quietly. The torch had been put out and hung back in its bracket, and they knelt at the mouth of the tunnel. “Those who need it will know how to find it.

“Perhaps... some day we two will have need of it again.” He spoke with hesitation, perhaps expecting reproof, but he spoke nonetheless. “Let us hope I am better at building fires by then.”

Following Halbarad’s heels through the blackness, toward the rough land beyond the cave, toward his brother and Aragorn and the inescapable passing of days, he considered the man’s words.

 _I should deny him_ , he thought. He had burdens and secrets enough to carry.

Sunlight filtered light in mottled filigrees through the veil of the Galadhrim, and the sound of water on stone gave way to the impatient stomp of horses and the jangling of their bits. The cave was far behind them now.

 _All Men are rash_ , Elrohir thought, and not for the first time. _I should deny him._

 _Then I should be denying myself_ , a louder voice within him cried, _for I, too, am rash!_

“You know much of the building of fires, Halbarad Dúnadan.”

That was all he said in the end.

**Author's Note:**

> or Levade for Ardor in August 2011, whose request was "A battle separates the twins, and leaves a brand new Ranger, Halbarad, riding through the wilds with Elrohir. What happens to them is up to you but if you can include trolls and a sense of "otherworldly elvishness" points to you!"
> 
> The title comes from the poem "The Fall of Finrod" by JRR Tolkien:  
> ...Resisting, battling against power,  
>  _Of secrets kept, strength like a tower,_  
>  And trust unbroken, freedom, escape;  
> Of changing and of shifting shape ...


End file.
